My dad is 60 tomorrow, he’s the second youngest in his family, with three sisters. As the only boy my grandparents didn’t think anything of dressing him up in dresses. We have a picture of him as a cherubic little blondie, curly haired boy in a little white dress playing on the doorstep of the family home. He looks so cute, and his sisters were all jealous of his hair. Now his hair is white, not even grey, until recently he wore it shaven so I hadn’t really noticed but in recent months dad’s grown a comb over! I have to face facts and say my parents are getting old.
Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it in the blog before but my dad is an undertaker, my mum worked there too and my brother does it part time, it’s the family business I suppose. In fact I’m the only one who hasn’t done it (not even for a holiday job), not because I’m squeamish about it, as a very young girl dad used to sit me up on the tables beside the bodies , I’ve listened to my parents talk about death over the dinner table for as long as I can remember (this Christmas i discovered how funeral homes manage to advertise without ever advertising… trade secrets!).
I just felt with my whole Gothic outlook on life working in a funeral home might just push me over the edge. My family have also experienced loss over the years and I’ve seen family members young and old pass away. So I’m not scared of death, it’s not unknown territory, and this isn’t what scares me about my folks getting older, but it’s the other things the grey hair, the high blood pressure and health scares.
My parents are still my parents, they are still taking care of me, my mum loves to make me a cup of tea or buy me a present, she loves to fuss about her children and we’ll always be her children no matter how old we are. Dad loves to fix things, be it my lawnmower, or my husband or giving me a sly fifty euro to “buy myself something nice”. I love them so much, and I love them still taking care of me, I spend all my time taking of my family and it’s lovely to be fussed over. What I’m scared of is when that changes, when I have to give up being taken care of and take care of them, to override their decisions, and tell them I know best. I don’t want to have to do that, that’s when my parents will die I suppose. God that’s depressing isn’t it?
Anyway the purpose of this post was to talk about my son’s baptism on Sunday, he’s to wear my family’s polyester heirloom. My mum and dad bought a christening gown in 1973 when I was born, it’s very of the era, long and frilly (I’ll try to post a photo) and my brother wore it three years later. Each of my beautiful children have worn it, with the blanket that my godmother bought for me, and as the years have passed I’ve added to the heirloom, knitting the booties, bonnet and jacket, so when my children are having their children I’ll guilt them into using it.
The christening gown is not to my taste, and the only time my sons will wear a dress (I hope), but much like the piggy cuff links in the Simpsons it’s tradition, which means something to my parents. In fact the whole process of baptism and Catholicism is just a tradition that I honour for my parents. I still crave their attention and approval as much as my weenies crave mine, I’m not ashamed to say it!
My little ones love a book called “I’ll love you forever”, about a mum and her son and the song she sings to him throughout his life “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living , my baby you’ll be”, it makes me cry every time as the mother grows old and dies, I think we all need to be someones baby and when they are gone it’s terrifying.
Midget Wrangler 